Je t'aime
by Karenina
Summary: Set in today's Paris. When the words .I love you. disturb Christine, who is just about to become a famous Etoile, she crushes out of the new Etoile world full of glam into one full of desperation. How will Erik react to her denial? And what about Raoul?
1. I

**: Je t'aime :**

**I**

Christine ran down the _Rue La Fayette_, not really caring about where she ran. She was desperate, that was sure. While running and trying to avoid crashing into other people, she searched her handbag for her cell phone. Hastily pushing aside her dark red lipstick and the keys to her appartment, she breathed heavily. The people she passed definitely thought her to be stressed out and they were completely right. Finally, she found her cell phone next to the cherry gums and pulled it out of the handbag. Away from the Opera. Away from the Opera.

'Argh,' she thought and dialed Raoul's number – only to come to a fast halt. She stared at her cell phone. No. She could not possibly call him. Not after all that happened. Not after breaking up with him the way she had done. It had been a disaster, oh, and if only this horrible day would come to an end! Even remembering the very same morning hurt her head. Thrusting the cell phone back into her handbag, she rushed on, her thoughts chasing one another. It was impossible. And people had warned her about it all. Especially about Erik.

"_Don't get too close to Monsieur Erik, Mademoiselle Daae," _Madame Giry had told her, _"he might be your vocal teacher. And yes, he might have bought you an appartment right across l'église Sacré Coeur, but remember my words, dear! Monsieur always gets what he wants. He has money. He is the most intelligent man Paris has these days, and probably has ever had. Keep your fingers off him! He won't do you any good…"_ Well, Christine thought, there was some truth to her words.

After the Masquerade Ball which should have introduced her, Mademoiselle Daae, as the new Opera singer, things had gone downhill. Two weeks later, the very day Christine rushed out of the Opera with the cell phone in her shaking hands, Erik had finally spoken about what his intentions with her were. Christine was appalled – he had taught her how to sing! He had made her the new Etoile. She was about to become very famous. He took her to every important club where the intelligent VIP would meet at night, introducing her as "Christine, l'Etoile de l'Opera," and kissing her cheek. But Christine had never thought his feelings for her would shape so fast. Yes, there definitely were signs for him liking her – but they had developed too fast for her to keep track.

And so, Erik, the famous Phantom of the Opera due to his many skills, oh, the man who owned an appartment right on the _Ile de la Cité_, the most expensive appartments Paris had to give – an old building, utterly beautiful, soul-crashing with its wonderful sight – he had finally spoken the big words… the scary ones… the ones Christine had tried to avoid for such a long time. They were the reason why she had broken up with Raoul the second he said those words himself! And after all, Erik was to face the same fate. But Christine had _known_ that someday… she could not escape those three words anymore.

Christine turned to the left, searching for a metro station. 'God, why did I have to move into the appartment already?', she thought, 'I don't even know how to get there properly.'

Had it really been seconds ago? Moments ago? Minutes ago? No, it couldn't be …

_"Christine," he whispered, "Madame. Come and sit down." He pointed on a seat next to his. She laughed and sat down. They watched the Giselle rehearsal on stage for a couple of minutes, watched how Madame Giry screamed at a principal dancer who had trouble with her pirouettes. Then, suddenly, his arm was around her waist. She slowly turned to him. "Yes?"_

"_Christine," he said again, this time his voice was soft. "Please don't ever leave me."_

"_What do you mean?" She was confused. She hadn't thought that Erik – Erik! – would ever use such words. Hadn't he always seemed resistant to her? "I mean a very simple thing." His fingers began to play with a lose lock of her hair. "Very simple. Three words, as simple as anything can be. Don't rush away, please," his eyes were pleading, "it cost me a fortune of words to even think about telling you. But – I love you."_

How could she have been so stupid? How? – Wasn't there any common sense in her head? Had he filled her head with Prada and Gucci so fast? Oh, the weeks in which they had spent so much time together had been wonderful. And last week, when he told her she would move to a wonderful appartment which faced the Sacré Coeur, she had fallen into his arms to embrace him and kiss his white mask. All magazines had shot pictures of them shopping in Dior and Chanel stores where he had bought her black clothes, so beautiful she had difficulties believing it wasn't a dream. "Madame," he had called her, "you look fabulous." And she had. The black Gucci skirt was wonderful, and so were her new shoes, not to speak of the jewelery. He had bought her. He had tried to buy her sould, and Dolce & Gabanna had helped him.

Now, she reached the _Boulevard de Magenta_ and was practically sick to her stomach. What would happen now? The Masquerade Ball had been so good for her reputation. Paris wanted to see her on stage, and they had. Two _La Traviata_ had been sung by her. Only two… and there were many of them to follow. The only thing that disturbed her heavily was how Erik would treat her, now that she had run from him. She understood – yes, it had cost him a lot of courage. And she had reacted exactly the way he had not wanted her to. A thought suddenly crossed her mind. She did not know Erik in the least. Not a single cell was self-evident to her understanding… he was a mystery, and so would the future be… her career… her feelings… her life…

* * *

**:Author's Note:** I hope all of you have enjoyed reading the first chapter. I promise the second chapter will be much longer with many many details. I believe there is not too much need to explain the situation between Erik and Christine; there will be more information about Raoul, though. Modern Paris will be focused a little more and the lifestyle of all of the characters will be important, too. If you mind that, just put it into your review. It will all be more complex and interesting, so if you are already interested, just keep track.Moreover, I wanted to thank Sukari for her support. She let me babble to her about it! 

I am looking for a reliable beta-reader, for I am not a native speaker. If you know anybody who would like to do it, I'd really appreciate it. Honestly! Thanks.


	2. II

**II**

When Christine finally reached the doorsteps to her appartment, her feet ached incredibly. She had never believed the distance from her appartment to the Opera to be so big, but that day she found herself proven so by her swollen toes that barely allowed her further steps. Fishing for the keys, she sighed loudly. At least this nightmare would come to an end now. She would be at home – and that moment, it didn't matter to her whether that home was new to her or not – and she would take a warm shower, unpack some paper boxes and lay down on her bed. The people Erik had paid to transport her belongings must have been gone for hours now. She would be all by herself.

Au contraire. Christine found her door unclosed. Slowly pushing the door open, she tried hard to control her breathing. Panic rose inside of her. Had somebody broken into her appartment? Would it be better if she called the police instead of going inside? "Hello?" Her voice barely hid how much fear possessed her. But to her big relief, another voice answered, clearly in a good mood. "Ah, Mademoiselle Daae, you have arrived." Christine frowned, wondering where the man had found out about her name. She closed the door behind herself and took a look around. But these weren't her belongings at all!

"He has taken care of more than you thought, huh?", said a man who came out of the kitchen, holding some papers and a pen. "Please sign that you found everything the way it is and I'm gone."

"But – where –"

"Mademoiselle, he ordered it yesterday evening and we could only get ready by now. I hope you don't mind. Please sign here."

Still in complete bewilderment, Christine signed. The man smiled at her once more and left without having indicated more as to what had happened. She turned around in the hall a couple of times, her mouth opened wildly. She had never been to the apartment before, only Erik's description had told her what it would be like. But it was much more than he had said. She gulped. The walls were about four meters high, the floor was made of parquet and stucco graced the ceiling. A small, old looking wooden table, polished, stood in the hall. Placed on it, there were a phone and a vase with red roses. She stepped closer and touched the blooms. They were soft and their scent made her smile. Erik… what have you done? Stumbling backwards, she discovered the rest of the apartment. The kitchen was fully equipped and everything looked new and modern to her. The living room which was rather big was, to her surprise, even more tastefully arranged. The sofa looked antique, too, and there was a big wooden cupboard full with small treasuries – small candles in earthy colours, a casket, a couple of books. A picture that showed Paris in black and white hang on the wall, capturing its atmosphere very well. But before Christine had the time to look around to grasp more details, she rushed out of the room, her eyes widely opened. What had he done? Where were all her things? Her sofa? Her books? Her –

The bedroom, though, was the best room in the appartment. The beauty of it could hardly be described. The bedcovers were white and laced on the corners. She rushed over to the closet, pulling open its doors. What she saw hurt her so much she had to close her eyes for some seconds. He had replaced her wardrobe… nothing was left of her old dresses, her jeans – there they were, the Gucci clothes, Prada, Dior… there they were, her new boots that had cost him 500€. She touched the material of a black skirt. It was smooth… so smooth… Turning away, her eyes caught the dressing table. Her feet carried her over slowly. Make-up, again highly expensive… and to the mirror, there was a note pinned. "To Madame Daae," it said. Madame… Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. They had seen in the mirror that a small casket was placed in the middle of the bed next to a rose. She fell to her knees in front of the bed, hitting the floor. Her fingers were strikingly trembling and they barely reached the casket without pulling back a couple of times. Her heart beat hard against her chest. Eventually, they reached it and pulled it over to Christine. She bit her lip. Having opened the casket, she coughed and began to cry immediately. It was the most beautiful ring she had ever seen.

_Yesterday. Yesterday. You ordered all of this yesterday._

What grief! A sharp pain shot through her chest. She believed to feel a fraction of his sorrow. Her tears formed grey blothes on the blanket. She cried silently, for any noise that disturbed the silence would cut her even more. Everything swam in front of her eyes, but she did not want to see, be that as it may. The lake of colours she dived into was blurry and she was willing to let go of any reality now. Why should she subdue her emotions? Senseless. An endeavour that would end without a trophy. Her reluctance to ever stop crying was overwhelming to her, for hadn't she always been jauntily impeccable? Only an hour later she was able to move her aching body. She dragged herself over to the window that faced the _Sacré Coeur_ and laughed loudly. Oh, heart… sacred heart… only just she was able to form a clear thought on her mind. And she knew that was to kill the last bit of positive feelings she had kept in her heart. Being positive seemed insensate to her. She didn't deserve it.

The sky was dark and not much later it began to rain. Big drops pushed themselves on the big window and she lingered on the floor and watched them roll down until they finally reached the end of the window – right on her eyelevel on the floor – and then disappeared into nothing.

She had betrayed amor. She had kicked him with her Gucci shoes. She had flirted with him, oh, how coquettish had she thought herself to be? And how clever? She had deeply hurt amor. And amor laughed into her face by signing a contract with fate. Fate had officially decided to make Christine's heart hurt. And so she did. And so her heart hurt. But had it been only her heart! Christine played with her locks. Amor had never taught her how to love. She did not know any better. Her whole life, things had been this way – with the small difference that now, she had really hurt two people. Both the same way. Amor had never taught her how to say "je t'aime"… and she was very sure of the fact that she would never have the chance to make it better. What a fool she was, hushing back from three simple words! What a halfwit she was for not being able to love! For playing with both of them. She wondered whether it had actually amused her. And even if it were so, she was about to pay for it. But she had enjoyed Raoul's company, just as well as she had had fun with Erik. They had both become part of her life, and when Raoul had practically demanded kisses from her, kisses of hot passion, she had not found any reason not to give in. When Erik had demanded her company, she had found no reason not to give in. Moral was something tricky… now it finally came to her. Had she betrayed both with spending time with the other? She looked around in the beautiful bedroom that she could now call her own. On her neck, there hung the necklace Raoul had given to her for her birthday… it had a heart and was made of silver… why had it never occurred to her that his feelings were different from all of those feelings the other men had felt for her?

Christine only knew one-night-stands. Men coming and going back to from where they had come. She never got close to a man in any other way. She barely knew how to define "love", and so she had played her way through life. She had really thought it was not different with Raoul. But it was. And as to Erik, she had not even thought it could ever go that far. But obviously, her surroundings proved her differently. It had gone that far. And even further. There were two men, one of them willing to marry her, and both their hearts she had broken in a very short time. She had nobody to turn to to let go of her sorrow – and neither did she deserve to. Moral grabbed her and punished her deeply and it was good the way it went. Had it only been her heart to be broken by pain!

Suddenly, the phone rang.

She gulped again. Who could it be? Who was possessing her new number? She frowned and went into the hall, pleading it would not be the only person to naturally have this number.

"Hello?"

"Christine. Finally I have reached you. What happened to your cell phone?" It was Madame Giry. She sighed.

"The battery… listen, Madame. I'll take one day off."

"Oh? What happened?"

"Nothing," Christine lied. "I just need to think."

"Very well then. Only know that we need you here in rehearsal."

"But why? I have quitted dancing. I am an Opera singer now."

"Not anymore!", Madame said angrily, "And let us hope that news will reach you, too. Tomorrow, eight o'clock in the morning. You have been promoted to a Corps de Ballet member. You're not a singer anymore. And I hardly think you can take a day off, since you haven't danced in two months and we'll stage Giselle in just two weeks."

"I believe you are mistaken. I will talk to Erik about this."

"Well," Madame hissed, "do so. It was he himself who ordered this."


	3. III

Dear Erik,

I have thought about this for a long time, and I need to apologize. It was not fair of me to simply let you sit there, having opened your heart to me. It was not my right to treat you that way, and neither is it my right to want anything from you – but I beg you, on my knees, to listen to me at least this once. You may think I have fallen deep to ask this from you, and you might be right. I know what 'dignity' means to you, and I know how much I have hurt you and still, let me breathe this out or…

I am worthless, Erik, and deep down in my heart, I have always felt this way. In the last couple of months, I felt rather secure the first time in my life and there is nothing you did not do for me. It sounds harsh for me to ask more, but as I already said – I have nothing left to lose, and here I am.

I beg you – take me back. Let me be a singer again, and I shall lie in your arms. Maybe I will not love you – but let me please you and sing. Please.

Christine

* * *

Author's Note: I apologize sincerely for not having updated for such a long time! I was veeery busy with having driving lessons etc., that I did not quite make it to write this chapter. And I just wrote a really long one, but due to my _nice_ computer, it hasn't been saved and here I am, having nothing in my hands but this. I will make the next chapter extra long, I promise! Please leave a review anyway. Please do! 


	4. IV

**IV**

For God's sake, she had dared. She really had.

Erik sighed and stopped clutching the letter, then watched it fall on the floor. The white paper on which she had written with dark ink seemed so innocent compared to its matter. In fact, he had never thought that white paper could ever have something as devastating as _that_ written on it – until he had received the mail. The letters seemed so anguished that he had to close his eyes for a couple of seconds before he could read on. And now, having finished the last line, the earth seemed to have stopped moving. Was this the path to hell? Was he dancing on it, or was rather she the one who had pulled him into this desperation? He dragged his aching body to the window and stared outside. It was a rainy day, as the last days had been rainy, with the only difference that now, he didn't bother at all. The cloudy sky appeared senseless to him, just as his own life suddenly faded through his hands and he was unable to catch a corn of it.

"Monsieur? Shall I bring the tea in now?"

He turned around and nodded to his servant girl, whom he failed to know by her first name because of a lack of interest in any female human being except for – her. Mademoiselle – what was her last name, after all? – left the room again, only to come back some timeless moments later with a tea tray that she pressed so closely to her Erik could see her bones shine whitely through her skin.

"No need to be nervous, Mademoiselle," he tried to smile at her. Only because his life was miserable at the time, he didn't need to make Mademoiselle's life a living hell. She smiled back, barely noticing his mood. To her, he had always seemed a little gray-mooded. Of course, that had a lot to do with how busy he was. Or at least she thought so. After Mademoiselle had left the room, Erik carefully took the steaming tea to his place at the window and sat down to think. The first question was: What was there to think about? Everything came across as very clear. Things had changed severely in the last two days, and there was nothing for anybody on earth to do to make everything undone. Whenever something horrible happens – no matter how short that action is – you always look back and wish. But wishing was less a help than Mademoiselle's tea, so he began sipping and thinking.

She had dared.

Dared to write him a letter that offered something he could just as well buy in the streets of Paris for much less money than he had already "invested". Investing might be an ugly word in this situation and it barely meets what he had intended to do. All he had wanted was give her something as a present that she would appreciate, and since that was of material substance, he had reached out for everything glamorous and given it to her. She had received it all with open arms, smiling at him, smiling 'her' smile, particularly happyly. It was all meant to make him mean something to her, but not what she obviously thought it to mean. He had never intended to buy her! What gentleman would do such a thing? It was behind his comprehension how she could only think about that… how she could believe it! He, Erik, the most intelligent man alive, he who had never truly loved any other woman – well, yes, physically, he had, and he had met women who were of much more beauty than Christine – but somehow, she had charmed him in a way he had not thought possible. Every other woman stroke his heart as dust compared to her. But looking back, maybe other women had made him happier. Maybe they had even loved him, regardless of what he had felt for them.

He felt the strong urge to beat the letter with his fists, to burn it, to let it fly out of the window and onto a dirty street of Paris, have it taken away by wind to a place far, far away from his. Perhaps it would have been better to burn it immediately, to destroy the cause of his pain – but would that truly have helped to ease his aching heart? And even then, it would haunt him in his dreams. It already did. She already did. Erik sighed. It was not her fault, she could do nothing about her charms, just as he did not want to do anything about his looks – apparently, in today's Paris they didn't matter next to all his skills and his own charm. Nevertheless, he could not help but think about it again and again. Why had he chosen her, or rather, why had his heart? Apparently, she did not even bother to use the rationally working parts of her brains to think about his feelings for a second. She simply treated him as though he were somebody who would try to pick her off the streets.

Had it really seemed to her like this?

She accused him of trying to buy her (not even her feelings, because obviously, she failed to think the thought to the bitter end). She accused him of being heartless, obsessed with sexual drives, blind for her inner being. 'Well,' he thought and sipped some more English tea, 'maybe my heart should stop being blinded by her.' It could not possibly feel for such a woman, could it? He wondered that again and again, touching the cold window with his fingertips. He was so intelligent… couldn't at least _he_ fight l'Amour?

"Monsieur?"

"Yes?" He put his cup back on the tray and frowned.

"Madame Giry is in quite an urge to talk to Monsieur. Shall I let her come in?"

"Well…" He acted as though to put some thought into the decision only to give himself another couple of moments without Giry. "Possibly."

"Possibly?"

"Let her come in," he said breathlessly and sat on a divan. "I shall be eagerly waiting." Seconds later, when Mademoiselle had left the room, Madame's shoes announced her arrival, and soon, she rushed through the doors to come to a halt and stare at him. "Erik!", she hissed.

"Madame," he grinned. Oh, how he loved teasing her…

"She cannot possibly dance in the Corps!"

"It is very nice to see you, too," he said, trying hard not to laugh sarcastically. How pathetic! This woman was pathetic from her top hair to her toes. A shame to the human being in most ways possible. Firstly, she never had any soft words for other people except her own daughter Megan – who, and this needs to be said, was not much better than her own mother – and secondly, she failed at every other aspect even possible. He wondered how she had survived as a teacher at the Opera for that long, and in that particular moment even thought about pulling some strings so that she could be fired. She had no skills as a teacher whatsoever. After having been spoiled for a whole year, they had to be taken care of by other teachers only so that they would reach the mere standarts of the art of ballet. What a shame. Although she did scream often enough to be called a strict teacher, she barely screamed anything of true, deep meaning, such as "That plie cannot really go that far down," or, "If you lift her the next time, I want to see you truly lifting her, not working". And because of this exact fact, he wondered why Madame Giry took the right to say who could not dance in the Corps and who could, seeing that she was highly incompetent.

"Really? And why is that?" Slowly, Erik began to amuse himself rather well. This was going to be interesting, and he hoped for it to end in a way even more fun than it had already been. Madame Giry's shocked face stared back at him, her eyes glaring.

"Because she cannot even do a tripple pirouette without falling to the floor!"

"What a shame."

"Monsieur, I am honest with you! She cannot dance in the next "Giselle," that is not possible. She will dishonour the art of ballet!" At this point, Erik chuckled. Dishonour the art of ballet? Well, look at you…

"Madame, I believe you are not in the position to decide something of this importance. I believe if she takes enough classes with Monsieur de Jour, she can easily dance in "Giselle"."

"But why – but … Monsieur!" Her eyes were not glaring anymore, but covered in tears. "Why Monsieur de Jour?" Erik had finally had enough of her pathetic self.

"Because you, my dear, will not return to the Opera." He stood up and walked over to the phone, feeling how she peered at his back, her tears streaming down her cheeks. "Hello? Yes, Monsieur. Yes. I called to have Madame Giry fired, or rather, how shall I put it? Put on vacation for a _very_ long time. Yes. Surely." He paused. "Yes. Very well, then. Oh, I believe Monsieur de Jour will be thrilled." Without turning back, he put the phone down and said, "you may leave now, Madame. Mademoiselle will show you the door."

OOOOOOOOO

_:Author's Note: Hey there, here is the promised chapter. I hope you like what you read, so please leave a review - as you know, we writers love feedback. I hope this has not been too short since I promised something long, but if you compare it to the other pieces I write, you will think this to be "War and Peace"! Lol. Which is a brilliant book, by the way._


	5. V

**V **

Days had passed and she was still without an answer, without a whisper of his voice which she thought to be broken with pain now, without one of his hot breaths against her cold skin. A sigh escaped her throat as she put her pointe shoes back into her bag and she squared her shoulders, hoping it would ease the pain. It didn't. Monsieur de Jour had told her to take a bath with a mocking expression on his face. He was probably person number one hundred who thought she was at the wrong place, trying to move her limbs gracefully and acting as though she could make it until the next "Giselle". They all thought she had forgotten about the reputation of the Opera; they all thought she was mad for trying so hard. She herself thought it was mad. But what could she do, after all? At least until she would finally have an answer from Erik, she would have to dance to make a living. Singing was no more an option without him by her side, and God knew that she could barely raise her voice without his encouraging smile around her, his presence that meant so much to her when she sang… but he had not been to the Opera since the day he had told her he loved her, and a bitter realization held out its hand to Christine. Maybe that was his answer?

But she would not settle for him running away from saying "yes". She had always thought him a man of dignity, and the second she had dropped the mail into the mail box, a thought occurred to her, punishing her with a sharp pain in her chest. She had hurt him more than pleased him with her offer, that was sure. He would never accept a written invitation… would he? Why should he? After all, why should he make it easy for her, especially since he had been the one hurt by her? Yes, she had done something very naïve, but the mail was gone, and there was nothing she could do but wait. Wait for his smashing response, wait for his "yes", wait for the day he would ask her to pay him a visit… wait for the day she could sing again, with him by her side.

But that day seemed far away, and Christine hardly could cope with the thought of the day never to come. She was getting restless. Never had she wished for herself to be a ballet dancer, never had she truly wanted to be on stage dancing. She needed to sing, and she needed to do so so bitterly that she was about to sell herself for it to nobody more grotesque than her teacher, her guidance, her good friend. A person who, in the usual definition, is somebody who cares for his student and has no sexual relation to her whatsoever. She was spoiling their relationship, for what good could ever come out of this? But she thought it lost forever, and so she had written that letter and sent it, and most surely destroyed the white coat her conscience was wearing. That one would be full of dirt and mud, never to be washed away. She couldn't care less.

Sophie entered the dressing room, dabbing sweat off her face with a white towel. Her green leotard was full of dark sweat spots, and she breathed heavily. She sat down next to Christine and carefully put off her pointe shoes, not wanting to rip open the blisters on her feet. Christine watched her, knowing very well how Sophie's feet hurt, then glanced at her own. They did not look as bad as Sophie's, but any person who admired beautiful feet would feel the urge to turn away and cry out loud at the sight of hers. Sophie sighed loudly. "Well, I guess that was it for today?"

Christine nodded and looked at her Gucci watch. "Yes. Eight o'clock, a reasonable time to go home," she whispered ironically and looked back at Sophie. Then, she leaned down to put on her street shoes. "How was rehearsal? Is Meg going well?"

"Oh, well, you know" Sophie mubmled but then suddenly stopped. "She hasn't told you yet?"

"Hasn't told me what?" Christine dropped her left shoe and stared at Sophie, alarmed. "What? Tell me!"

"You truly had better call her. I am not the person to tell you." With that, she pulled a big towel out of her bag and went towards the door. "I'll take a shower and you call her."

Christine nodded, watching her walk out of the room again, numb with thoughts. Yes, something should have made her alert – she had not seen Meg today, but simply thought that they rehearsed "Giselle" on stage already. But wouldn't Meg have told her? At this point, Christine began feeling bad. She herself hadn't told Meg about the letter, and she should have. Meg was her best friend, and although she would dance the "Giselle" in a couple of days, she explained that she was still interested in Christine's life, as a 'best friend' was supposed to be. They had always told each other everything that was going on in their lives, every single detail seemed to be of huge importance. She had called Meg about the new appartment, told her about the ring – Christine looked down on her finger and looked at the ring. She had put it on, not really knowing why, but she had. It was symbolic for her, it was pure support but it was pain too. Pain at the thought of Erik, knowing how she had hurt him. Did she think she could make it up to him by wearing his ring? What was that gesture supposed to be, anyway? She felt like a snake wearing the ring, sneaking around poor Erik… but he had not even seen her wearing it, did not even know about it. And now, there were other things to worry about than the ring. Her mind waved back to Meg and she frowned. Why hadn't she told her? Had she forgotten? Had something inside of her not wanted her to know? And if so, why? She had had the courage to send the letter, so she would have to take the consequences of it.

Sophie would be back from showering soon, so Christine took a deep breath and fished her cell phone out of her big, brandnew and black Celine handbag. While looking up Meg's number, her heart began to race. She had to tell her about the letter, now or never! She could no longer lie to her best friend and hide from her what was most eternal now – her bitter, bitter sin. Full of excitement, she dialed Meg's number. Some moments later, the words flew out of her mouth. "Megan? Megan? Thank God you're there, I need to talk to you. Right now. Listen, I have done something very bad, and I have kept it from you-"

"I do not care about your problems right now, Chris," Megan answered and only then she noticed how much Meg's voice sounded as if she had cried. "Oh," she gave back, "um… why not? Meg, are you crying?"

"Yes."

But as she did not explain any further, Christine frowned again and leaned forward. "What's going on?"

"My mother died yesterday night."


	6. VI

**: Je t'aime :**

**VI**

Christine smashed the appartment door shut behind her. Oh, this pain! This atrocity! It couldn't be. She hastily put her street shoes off, rushing through the hall into her bedroom. 'Madame Giry is dead…,' she thought, and this thought had been running through her mind all the time as she made her way back from the Opéra to her appartment. It was a miracle she had made it back at all, seeing that she ran through the streets almost like a maniac, not seeing anybody or anything. Several cars had to stop for her, their drivers wondering what made that woman cross such a busy street.

But now, Christine was back to her appartment, safe and sound – everything was doomed to failure. Madame Giry was dead, her best friend was in deep grief, and she had ruined her own life within two days. She was not so foolish as to come things might swing back into her favour. Now, all she could do was yield to reason and accept the fact that she was incredibly alone. Everything appeared with a painfully sharp clarity: She had nobody in the world left, and soon, she would be only a sihlouette against the dim light of life. It was too late to change anything, so she had to lean in and take the path destiny would guide her.

She turned into her bedroom and – full of shock – came to a halt. There he was, sitting on her bed. Before she could catch her breath, he had stood up, and suddenly, he was right in front of her, pushing her to the wall. He was heavy, she gasped for breath as he pushed herself against her, and she heard him say, "You really dared to write that letter…" Christine closed her eyes, anguished to death at the thought of what he could possibly want from her. "You really did."

"But Erik…," she brought out, her hands stemming against his shoulders, trying to push him away, "…I did not mean to hurt… you…" But she stopped speaking as she felt his hands ripping open her pants.

"No… please, don't…"

"You said I could have you," he shouted and pulled her pants down. "And I will. It's the price you have to pay for writing that letter at all…" He pushed her legs apart.

"Erik! Not like this… please, don't…"

What seemed like hours later, Christine was lying on the cold wooden floor of her bedroom, staring at a point at the ceiling. She had tried to dream herself into a world full of flowers, full of music… _Angel of music…_ but in vain. Erik was taking a shower, but not to get rid of all the dirty thoughts, but to triumphantly sing… "And I took her… she's the beast…"

It was useless to try and move, for he had locked the door. She was all alone in the apartment, and he was the one in power. When had he turned into what he was? When -? Had she missed out on it? He had been such a loving man, never conspicuous, so aware of the beauty of the world – and of her beauty. Now he had taken her like a whore. This could only mean that she was nothing to him anymore, an instrument to bring his violent dreams to living colour. He could easily get rid of her.

The door opened. He stepped inside, kneeled on the floor and touched her cheek. "I am sorry," he whispered. She didn't respond, still staring at the ceiling.

"Please come to Madame Giry's funeral, I demand it." He stood up again. "And don't you tell anybody about this."

OOOOOOOOOO

_Author's note: Oy, oy, what have I done? Originally, I did not intend to make him so violent, but I guess that's it. An Erik of horror? Didn't seem like it in the beginning. I hope this isn't too much of shock for you… anyways. Tell me what you think._


End file.
